39

This past weekend I turned 39. I have one year left of my 30's.

I’m not handling it well.

I’ve never before been bothered by my age or the prospect of getting older. I sailed through the transition from 29 to 30 with ease while some around me seemed to struggle. But recently, the thought of getting older has been infecting my thoughts like some virus from a horror movie. I’m plagued by pictures of me from the recent past that display my darker hair, smaller forehead and a noticeable lack of wrinkles around the eyes. Somehow the younger me appears brighter and more focused.

Of course I am projecting. My reality is not as harsh as it appears to me. At least this is what WonderWife™ tells me, and I’m inclined to believe her since she rarely has anything other than my best interests at heart. But I must admit that it is difficult.

I now understand the compulsion of middle-aged men to buy a flashy new sports car. Something that bright and shiny is meant to make you look cool in a world that doesn’t care if you’re cool. Because the truth is, middle-aged men aren’t cool. Nor should they be.

There are new generations rapidly coming up behind me and I find myself surrounded by a whole lot of people a whole lot younger than me who don’t get my movie references, don’t care about the TV I used to watch and think my music belongs on the oldies station (which, alarmingly it is). It makes me sound ancient to wax poetic about a time before the internet. And while I’m far from yelling at people to get off my lawn, I am no longer a part of the all-important 18-34 demographic that shapes pop culture. As an entertainment junkie, this upsets me.

Again, I know that I’m being dramatic. Life does not end at 40. If my 60-something parents have showed me anything, it’s that there’s a tremendous amount of fun to be wrung out of the latter half of my life. But it can’t be helped that these are the thoughts that bounce around in my brain like super balls as I take my kids to school. These are the seeds of the so-called midlife crisis.

But I’m not going out and getting that sports car, even if I could afford it. I’m not trading in my wife for a younger, dumber model. I will continue to live in my modest house and enjoy my roles as a husband and a father, Because those are good things to be and I do enjoy being them. I will continue to diligently try to carve out my place in this world. I will continue to use my Rogaine, in a misguided effort to stave off inevitable baldness. I will continue to get older, whether I like it or not. And eventually, after a brief period of neurotic gestation followed by some soul searching, I will be okay with it.

But today, I’m struggling just a bit.

Exit Through the Parking Lot

There hadn’t been a Bean-friendly movie in theaters for many months, so I was excited when Hop opened. I had been planning to take the Bean for a few weeks and when I broached the subject with him, he seemed excited. Soon tickets were bought and a giant tub of popcorn procured. But about a half-hour into the movie, the Bean signed “all done”, which is the last remaining vestige of teaching him sign language as a toddler. A few moments before, I had noticed him sitting rigid in his seat, hands over his eyes.  As much as I wanted to see the rest of the flick, it would have been bad parenting to keep him there.  He asked to leave again.  We left. 

The Bean was despondent as we walked out of the theater. My attempts to find out what was bothering him went ignored. We passed by a furniture store and I suggested we go inside to test-sit the couches. When the Bean found a rocking chair, his disposition brightened some. After several minutes of chasing each other around the store, my boy was back. I found a nice over-stuffed sectional for us to crash on and I was finally able to coax his troubles from him.

There was a scene in the movie, where a cute and fuzzy talking bunny is hit by a car. Although the bunny was barely touched, he feigned hurt to gain the driver’s sympathy. The driver, thinking he had maimed a small animal picked up a rock in order to put the rabbit out of its misery. At the last minute the bunny realized what’s happening, a bit of chaos ensued and thus began the comic misadventures of man and bunny that drove the rest of the story.

Although all of this is played for laughs, this scene is what bothered the Bean. He couldn’t get over it and he worried that another “scary” moment might be around the corner. While having to bail before the end credits disappointed me, I understood that doing anything more than complying with the Bean’s wishes to leave the theater would have been incredibly hypocritical of me. Because when I was a kid, I was petrified of the movies.

My first movie memory is of Superman. When faced with the death of his beloved Lois Lane, Superman flies around the world backwards and turns back time. As a young child seeing this on the big screen, I completely and utterly lost my shit. For years afterward, I would have panic attacks at the mere mention of going to see a movie. When I did make it inside, I would often have to leave mid-flick. As a result, my dad and I spent a lot of time doing deep breathing exercises in many a movie theater parking lot.

Amazingly I not only got over my fear, but I transformed into a giant movie nerd. To those closest to me, particularly the ones who endured my phobia, my obsession with movies stands as the greatest of ironies. Any psychologist worth their salt would say that my connection to movies is a subconscious way of overcoming my childhood fears. Though I guess I didn’t just overcome them, I obliterated them.

All of this ran through my mind as the Bean and I ate lunch. I fought off the urges to try to explain to him that the movie wasn’t supposed to be scary, that even though some scenes can be thrilling, movies are filled with happy endings that make us feel good. But I knew that anything I said would have been as pointless as when people said them to me many, many years ago when I was a freaked out kid. The best thing I could do here was to accept that my son is my clone, to stand by him and to realize that this wouldn’t be the first time we walked out of a movie together.

I hope that the Bean doesn’t develop the level of fear that I had as a kid. It was something that haunted me for a long time. But if he ever does, he’s lucky because he’s got me for a dad—somebody who understands what he’s going through and will stand by him unconditionally, and somebody who knows plenty of deep-breathing exercises and where the best places are in parking lots to do them.

Improvement

Although looking at me from the outside it was hard to notice, last year I sort of fell apart. Professionally it was a chaotic time of transition that consumed me. As a result, I lost some of my focus on other things. And while my life is far from being a Lifetime movie of the week, I haven't liked feeling scattered and remote. 

These are normally the kind of thoughts that pop up around the New Year, when resolutions are made. But seeing as we are long past the time when most of these promises have been abandoned, it feels like a safer time to instill some change.


My Health
The first step was joining a gym. However, the more crucial step of the plan is to actually go to said gym. This is the part where I usually have a problem. I have no difficulty putting money down to enter a gym, but I can't stand working out. I believe that there is such a thing as a runner’s high for some people, but I have never been one of them. To me, exercise is neither cathartic nor enjoyable. It’s painful, sweaty, hard work and I am, by nature, a lazy man. But seeing that I’m staring down the barrel of 40 and that I have an appetite for bacon and booze, I need the gym. So far, I’ve gone three times in the week and a half since I joined. It’s a good start, but I’m not celebrating yet.

My Blog
I have lost a bit of my writing mojo, as evidenced by my one post a week schedule here. Like my body, my brain needs exercise too and writing gives me that work out. Unlike the gym, I enjoy writing. I actually thrive on the outlet. But when work got busy, I fell out of the habit of writing regularly. It’s not even writer’s block. I have pages worth of ideas and observations. But lately it’s seemed like effort to get them into post-worthy shape. As much as I care about my readers, the real reason I write this blog is to keep a record of my kids’ lives. So I need to push myself to get over this hill for them.

My Marriage
I need to be a better husband. Though I am not quite sure how to do this. It feels like my and WonderWife's™ role as parents has overtaken our roles as a couple. Things aren't bad between us. But they could be better. I know that if I try, WW™ and I can find ourselves again despite all of the diapers and laundry and floors strewn with toys.

My Kids
While I think I’m a good dad (and hope that my kids agree), I want to be better. I need to be more patient. I need to be more present. I want to make sure that the time I spend with them is quality. I want to be more creative and more fun with them. I want to give them everything they need, and more.


There. I’ve laid it all out for the world to read. Now it’s up to me to be accountable. Right now I feel energized. This is attainable. It’s just going to require a little work.

The Last Smoke

It had been a very long time since I last smoked a cigarette. Over a decade in fact. I was never much of a huge smoker--a half a pack of day at my worst--but I loved it. I loved the ritual. The smell of the tobacco just before the flame torches it. I loved how the hot smoke would mix in my mouth on cold days. I loved how it afforded me a small break from the world. But I also knew that it was not good for me and that I needed to stop. So not more than a year out of college, I found myself sitting across the table from a cute girl, on a blind date orchestrated by my sister, talking about smoking. Or rather, my intent to someday quit smoking.

"Why don’t you quit right now?" she asked.

Because I was more interested in trying to impress a girl that I wanted to sleep with than anything else, I slid my pack of cigarettes across the table. And that was it. I never did get the girl into my bed, but I never went back to smoking either.

After that twitchy first smoke-free month was behind me, I actually found it pretty easy to quit. My willpower was strong. It also helped that California had just banned smoking in bars, so a layer of temptation had been removed in a stroke of perfect timing.

While I didn't crave it all of the time, every once in a while I would miss smoking. Sometimes I would walk past somebody smoking and I would get a hit of tobacco that just smelled good to me.

It had been a very long time since I'd even thought of smoking a cigarette when I found myself craving one while I was alone on a road trip. There was some song lyric about smoking and it hit me. I found myself pulling into a gas station and before I really knew what I was doing, I had bought a pack. I automatically tapped the pack, unwrapped the cellophane and tapped out a cigarette, just like I used to. The whole thing felt weird that it was so familiar.

The cigarette felt heavier than I remembered. Thicker. I put one end in my mouth and held the flame to the other. I listened for the crackle of the paper and tobacco catching, inhaled, and immediately fell into a massive choking fit While the actions of lighting a cigarette might have felt familiar, my body was not used to the toxic smoke and was not happy. I tried to take another drag, but my lungs were rejecting everything about it. This was not the pleasurable experience I once had. This was torture.

I crushed out the cigarette and threw the rest of the pack away. I didn't like the coughing. I didn't like the smoke. I didn't like anything about the cigarette. As much as I used to love smoking, it was clear at that moment as it had been when I first quit that I am no longer a smoker. Sometimes the body is smarter than the mind and my body knows that my smoking days are very much behind me.

A Parenting Truth Exposed

Over a couple of beers I was talking with a friend about kids. He’s only a scant few weeks away from parenthood himself, so he’s actually one of my few childless friends that doesn’t mind me prattling on about my offspring. He said that he felt bad because he hasn’t really spent a lot of quality time with the Bean. When we see each other it’s either guy’s night, where there are no kids, or at a BBQ, where there’s a lot of other stuff going on--like drinking and swimming and friends and food...

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But in those situations I don’t always want to turn it on and be with the kids.”

“Dude,” I said. “I don’t always want to turn it on and be with the kids.”

Then I explained to him that being a parent doesn’t always mean being a good parent. There are plenty of days when I’m half-assing it. The Bean is talking incessantly about who freakin’ knows what and I’m throwing out well timed nods and “yeses” to make him think I’m invested in what he’s saying.

“So look man, don’t feel bad about this. When you’re out in the sun standing next to a pool with a mai tai in your hand, don’t ruin your buzz because you feel obligated to spend time with my kids.”

I think my buddy was a little shocked to hear this. And as I’m talking and taking in his dazed expression, I realize that there are certain idealized notions that comes along with new parenthood. These usually get squashed pretty quickly when the reality of having kids sets in.

Or during drunken conversations with a friend who’s been at it for a few years.

Yeah, About That Thing I Said Yesterday...

I’m here.

I’m not going anywhere.

A lot of you saw through the charade.

But some of you didn’t. You left some nice comments. Some of you called WonderWife™ to find out if it was true. And while absorbing your collective reaction, I realized something--it wasn’t the best April Fool’s joke.

A good April Fool’s prank is one that is both slightly believable and slightly outrageous. Like this. Or this. Or even my rather lame attempt last year. The best ones are the ones where you fall for the joke for a second, then you’re in on it.

Yesterday’s post was inadvertently a little like throwing a funeral for myself. I thought that most of you would automatically see through it. But for some of you, the execution was a little too poker faced.  A few of you seemed genuinely sad.  Thank you for caring.  I am touched.  

But it's not true. 

I think Sci-Fi Dad said it best when he said:
In other news, DGB has also decided to give up bacon and one-off, special edition candy bars.

So to reiterate, I’m not giving up the blog. Because if I don’t write all of this stuff down, how am I going to ever remember it happened?

Wimpy Activity

I am a huge wimp.

Let me rephrase that. I am a huge wimp when it comes to all things scary. Growing up, this was especially true of horror movies. This phobia was particularly difficult seeing as I came of age in the 80s, the decade that birthed the modern horror flick. My friends saw just about every one. So naturally, despite me never having seen any of them, I knew all of the grizzly details.

I was 10 years old when I saw Poltergeist on cable. Even though I knew in advance nearly every scare, and even though it was a sunny Saturday morning when it was on, that movie had a profound effect on me. I tied a rope around the doorknobs of my closet for over a year after.

During horror movie nights at summer camp, I would be forced to spend the evening hanging out with the kids who were “docked”—a suspension of sorts for campers who had gotten in trouble that day and were not allowed to participate in that evening’s activity. When my bunkmates returned I was subjected to mockery while they spent the rest of the evening talking about all the gruesome scenes they had earlier witnessed in The Thing or Creepshow.

Only a handful of my closest friends knew of my fears and I tried very hard to keep it that way. This was not always easy to do. One weekend night in junior high there was a screening of Aliens at the house of a girl I kind of liked. As we gathered around the TV, I purposely positioned myself in a corner that had an obstructed view of the screen. I sat there trying not to listen and wishing for time to accelerate when somebody popped up behind the couch and screamed “boo.” Weather or not, this was actually intended for me will forever remain a mystery. Instinct took over and before I knew it I had leapt over the couch. My next memory is that the lights were turned on and I was sitting on top a guy whose head I had pushed through the drywall. To call the aftermath mortifying is an injustice to that word.

Now that I’m an adult, and a movie geek, I’ve shed a lot of my fears about horror movies. I’ve seen a handful of them and for the most part, have emerged unscathed. I can openly and honestly admit my wimpish tendencies.

There is a movie out right now called Paranormal Activity. Over the past few weeks, it has been shown to sold out audiences at midnight screenings. It is fast becoming a phenomenon, similar to The Blair Witch Project of a decade ago. I don’t usually listen to platitudes, but Paranormal Activity is being called one of the scariest movies ever. Like Poltergeist, it takes place in a regular suburban home. I have heard it’s the kind of flick that creeps the skin and haunts you long after you’ve left the theater.

As a fanboy, I am compelled to see it. But as a wimp, I’m afraid. Most of the time, I go to movies by myself. Nearly all of the time, I see them at night. After the movie is over, I would have to walk alone through a subterranean parking garage to my car and arrive at a darkened house where everyone is sleeping.

Total. Wimp.

I am not the type to miss out on a pop culture phenomenon, but in this case I’m afraid that I may have to make an exception.

Under Your Spell

Dear Sprout,

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you have me completely under your spell. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but lately all you have to do is look at me the right way and I’m a puddle. It’s like something out of a sci-fi movie. I am no longer in control.

I had always heard that dads have a special relationship with their daughters, but up till now you have been clinging to your mom’s side so much that I wasn’t even sure if you knew I was in the room. Now that you’re walking and talking, you’ve been less reliant on your mother. You’ve even taken some time out of your busy brother-worshiping schedule to build a relationship with me.

It started with our first private joke. I looked over at you one morning during breakfast, shook my arms and make an “oooo” sound. It cracked you decidedly up. You started asking for it again and again by waving your arms at me. Every time, I was happy to oblige. Maybe it was at that point that you realized that I could make you laugh. You also realized you can make me laugh too. That’s when the devilish grins started, along with the sweet “innocent” smile you use to try to cover up the fact that you’re about to do something naughty. I love it when I’m working in the study and you poke your head around the corner and say “hi” until you get my attention. After you pull away coyly, only to pop back up with another “hi” and blow me a kiss. See? Melting, I am.

Of course you know that I eat all of this up as if it were made of bacon. You’re smart enough to understand that you’ve got me hooked and I am at your beck and call. But that’s okay. You keep charming me and I’ll keep lavishing attention on you. It’s what daddy/daughter relationships are all about.

So much love,
Daddy

My Great Shame

I confess my great shame over at Hot Dads today.

"I don’t know how to build anything. I don’t know how to fix anything. I know nothing about cars. I really have no skills at all."

Table Scraps Volume #3: Cooking & Movies as Gambling

There are so many little pieces of ideas that aren't quite enough for a full post. Seeing as being "green" is trendy these days, I like to recycle them every once in a while in a thing that I call Table Scraps.


I love to cook, though these days I don't do it very often. But when I do, I am not only compelled to tell people that I've cooked a meal, but also what I've cooked and how. I don't know why I do this. Conversing with me should not be like reading a menu. I'm confident that people don't care that the other night I made ahi tuna seared in sesame oil with edemame and garlic sautéed broccoli... (See, I'm doing it again.)

I know all of this, yet I pathologically keep doing it. Maybe it's because I watch too much Food Network, and have been conditioned by the chef/hosts to explain everything I do in the kitchen. Or maybe it's just a lame attempt to get attention by making something ordinary, like cooking food, seem extraordinary.

_______________________________

Being a fan of blockbuster movies is a lot like going to Vegas. Sometimes you’re going to win and sometimes you’re going to lose. The key is that you have to set it in your mind that you're going to walk away a loser. The hope is always that you’ll win, but more often than not, the house will take your money. Something very important to remember with the summer movie season fast approaching.


You may have noticed that I've started Tweeting. Yes, I know that I've said it a few times that I didn't have time for Twitter, but it's hard to be geeky and ignore something that's infiltrated pop culture to the degree that Twitter has. I've never claimed to be anything more than a mindless follower. And speaking of following...why don't you head on over there and become one of mine?

A Confession

This is hard for me to say. I’ve been lying to you. I’m sorry, but I have. Everything I’ve written here for the past 2½ years has been untrue. I am not a dad. I am not even married. The Bean, Sprout, WonderWife™…all figments of my over-active imagination. A fantasy made all too real by the constant writing of this blog. I don’t even have any pets. The images I’ve posted? I got them from Flickr. In truth, I am a 56 year-old man. I live alone in a studio apartment in Northridge. I work in a cubicle doing data entry for a company that sells tile and flooring. I have a few friends and every once in a while, I go out on a date.

I want to thank you all for your support over the years. I'm going to continue to write, but now that I have come clean, the subjects of my blog will change somewhat. However, I still think that you'll enjoy my stories about work and of my attempts at dating. I'm just figuring out how to use some of those internet dating services. I know that if I keep at it, I will find that someone special and hopefully have kids for real one day.